Show No Fear Page 4

  He stepped over to her chair. “Stand up,” he ordered. “Let me look.”

  “No!” The last thing she wanted was for him to force her off the assignment because of a little cut in her hip. She bolted out of the chair, dodging past him to race into the marbled bathroom, where she promptly locked the door.

  With a calming breath, Lucy turned three quarters and peeled back the waistline of her European-style slacks to survey the damage.

  Damn. Maybe she shouldn’t have run again last night. The Band-Aid she’d stuck on her this morning was blood-soaked. She snatched it off to eye the small, gaping cut with foreboding. Yanking toilet paper from the roll, she dabbed at the wound, rolled her slacks over the tissue, and opened the door again, running straight into Gus.

  “Do not,” she warned, her temper flaring, “get in the habit of standing outside the bathroom door.”

  “No problem,” he said easily. “There are no bathrooms in the jungle.”

  She pushed past him to get to her backpack.

  “It’s bleeding,” he guessed as she upended her bag, shaking the contents onto the bed.

  Band-Aids, check. She snatched one up, circling him as he stepped into her path, and headed back into the bathroom.

  Flashing out a hand, he caught her back, his grip unbreakable. Lucy tugged uselessly, annoyed by the realization that he could overpower her with embarrassing ease. “Listen to me,” he said, his gentle tone oddly menacing when paired with his steely grasp. “Even the smallest sore will fester in the jungle if it isn’t treated. I can’t let you proceed with this assignment.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lucy insisted, tempted to stamp a foot. “What are you going to do, call Gordon and tell him I’ve got a little cut? I’ve also got a hangnail,” she quipped, shoving a finger under his nose—her middle one. “Does that disqualify me, too?”

  “I have a new word for your vocabulary,” he continued, seeming to change the subject while tightening his grip as she struggled once again. “Teamwork,” he articulated. “That’s how Navy SEALs operate. That’s why our casualty rate is as low as it is. We watch each other’s backs. Now, I know you like to work alone. You made that pretty clear. But now we’re partners, Luce. If you’re going to wind up dead over an infection, then I have a right to know.”

  She had to admit his argument was reasonable. “Fine,” she conceded, ceasing to struggle. “Whatever. I’ll show you the cut and you’ll see that it’s nothing.”

  With a nod and a grimace of apology, he released her.

  Lucy planted herself before the mirror, glanced quickly at her pink-cheeked reflection, then looked away, rolling her slacks down a scant inch for him to see.

  As Gus stepped into the little room, the walls seemed to shrink inward. Their gazes briefly met, sparking heat and sexual awareness. With her heart pumping fast, she turned so he could see the slit. “See?” she said, “No big deal.”

  He bent over, depressing the soft skin around the incision as he inspected it. “You weren’t supposed to run last night,” he chided. “You tore the stitches open or rubbed them off or something.”

  How could he know she’d run last night, or was that just a good guess? “My bad,” she apologized, every nerve in her body screaming in awareness of him.

  “Do you have any antibacterial ointment?” he asked, all seriousness.

  “No,” she admitted, watching breathlessly as he ran a wash cloth under steaming water and pressed it to the wound.

  She tried not to flinch as he pressed it to her hip. It would take more than an itty bitty cut to slow her down.

  “Now,” he said, dabbing her hip dry with a second cloth. “No more running. I want a good scab on this cut before you step foot in the jungle.”

  “Hooyah.” She tossed off a mock salute, snatching the Band-Aid from his hand before he put it on her.

  His touch was unsettling enough. She didn’t need him coddling her. All that did was feed the little seed of doubt sprouting roots in her mind.

  Lucy Donovan didn’t do helpless. She could damn well put on her own Band-Aid. A knock at the door startled them both, making them realize they’d both been speaking English, and none too quietly, either.

  Gus went to answer it while Lucy bandaged her hip and scrounged up her composure.

  “Carlos, come in,” Gus said in Spanish.

  Adjusting her clothing, Lucy trailed them toward the window.

  “I just checked the arrival times of the others,” said the Spaniard, his gaze touching on her flushed face. “Fournier the Frenchman and Bellini, the Italian, will arrive this afternoon. The Turkish woman comes this evening,” he added, looking back at Gus. “As long as you return from your meeting by six o’clock, no one will notice your absence. If someone shows up early, I’ll tell them you’re out sightseeing.”

  “Sounds good,” said Gus.

  “The safe house is ten blocks from here. I scoped it out this morning. You can either take a taxi or the Trans-Milieno,” he added.

  “We’ll see how we feel,” Gus replied with a shrug.

  “Fournier will want all of us to dine together this evening, so don’t get lost,” cautioned Carlos. “Besides, you don’t want to be out after dark in Bogotá,” he added with a wink at Lucy. He headed toward the door. “Be safe.”

  Lucy couldn’t help but reflect that safe was clearly a relative term. While she doubted harm would befall her with a Navy SEAL for protection, their chemistry was proving explosive enough to make any situation volatile.

  CHAPTER 3

  It’s about a three-mile walk,” Gus pointed out as they stepped out of a fire-escape exit to avoid being noticed by the valets guarding the hotel’s main entrance. “You want to take a taxi, or the TransMilieno like Carlos said?”

  “And risk my life for nothing?” Lucy retorted, pulling up the hood over her waterproof jacket while sweeping a practiced eye up and down the tree-lined boulevard.

  The falling temperatures and light drizzle left her feeling chilled. How much worse would it feel in the jungle without any type of real shelter?

  “It might aggravate your incision to walk that far,” Gus pointed out.

  “Three miles isn’t far,” retorted Lucy. “Besides, I want to see the city. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. Which way do we go?”

  “North,” he said, glancing at his watch. Realizing it had a compass on it, Lucy had to smile. James had always loved his gadgets. What a shame he would have to leave this one behind. “This way,” he added, throwing a casual arm around her and steering down a brick-laid boulevard.

  Awareness shot through Lucy as their hips collided. It was proving all too easy to play the role of Gus’s bride. On an instinctive level, she was comfortable with him. Why wouldn’t she be when, at one time, they’d been inseparable, two peas in a pod? But just as he had back in college, Gus knew how to push her buttons, how to infuriate her, how to arouse her. And when he did either, she lost focus. On an assignment as dangerous as theirs, that could be deadly.

  Fortunately, things hadn’t gotten dangerous yet. The only thing his hand at the small of her back distracted her from was a city that blended old-world charm with glittering skyscrapers. Caught up in Bogotá’s allure, she led him away from the brick-lined avenues to the smaller streets to enjoy the capital’s true flavor by mingling with the locals.

  Many minutes later, she caught Gus glancing at his watch again.

  “We’re going to be late,” she guessed, trying to gauge where they were.

  “This way,” he said. “There’s the Museo de Oro.”

  The museum’s golden dome was a landmark for the safe house. Once beyond its doors, they came to a residential neighborhood where middle-class houses hid behind walls topped with broken glass. “This is it,” he added, pausing by a pedestrian gate at number 733. He depressed the intercom button.

  “¿Sí?” asked a gruff male voice.

  Gus announced them in Spanish, and the lock buzzed, allowing them to push their way inside.
They crossed a pebbled courtyard to be greeted by a stern-faced American wearing a white Guayabera shirt. “John Whiteside, station chief,” he introduced himself shortly. “Come in.”

  As they traversed a narrow hallway, Lucy realized Gus wasn’t touching her anymore. She felt suddenly wet and chilled.

  They stepped into a tiled living space, stuffed with chairs and buff-looking men in civilian clothing. Lucy counted eight of them as they scrambled to their feet at her and Gus’s entry. “Evening, sir!” chorused several of them, but all had eyes for just Lucy.

  She was used to the attention; she would admit she even exploited it. When men made fools of themselves, that just made her own job easier.

  Gus drew her front and center. “Guys, this is Lucy Donovan. Some of you helped extract her from a warehouse in Maiquetía, Venezuela, last year.”

  He just had to bring that up.

  Lucy mustered a smile for the men she recognized, greeting them by name. “Vinny, how are you?” she said, extending a hand at the Al Pacino look-alike, a Special Operations medic. “Harley, right?” she added, turning to the blue-eyed chief who kept his head as shiny and bald as a billiard cue.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Harley, looking impressed.

  “And, Haiku?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” beamed the Japanese American, his dark eyes sparkling. He was obviously thrilled to be remembered.

  “This is Lieutenant Lindstrom, the officer in charge,” Gus added, turning her toward the SEAL who towered over the others and bore a striking resemblance to a former professional football player.

  “Call me Luther,” he said. His hand engulfed hers while dark blue eyes took stock of her.

  “Did you used to play football?”

  “Yes, I did,” he admitted modestly.

  And he’d given up all that money to become a Navy SEAL?

  “This is Teddy Brewbaker, our explosives expert,” Gus added, pulling her from her starstruck stare to introduce her to the only black man.

  “My friends call me Bear,” Teddy boomed, flashing the gap between his front teeth.

  Gus introduced her to three more men: Gibbons, their spindly point man, Swanson, rear security, and finally the assistant OIC, Lieutenant Casey. By the time she’d shaken every man’s hand, her knuckles ached.

  “Let’s get down to business,” interrupted the station chief with an impatient nod at the OIC’s laptop humming quietly on the coffee table.

  There weren’t enough seats for everyone. Five SEALs offered to surrender their chairs to Lucy, who accepted Vinny’s offer since it gave her the clearest view of the laptop. Harley gave up his seat to Gus, who sat beside her.

  “All set?” Luther asked, rousing his laptop with a deft touch. “This is where you’re headed.”

  The top of Lucy’s head tingled as she beheld a satellite photo of a snow-capped mountain.

  “It’s called La Montaña,” the former football player continued. “The FARC have retreated onto this fourteen-thousand-foot monstrosity to recoup their losses. Due to heavy desertion, it’s believed the number of rebels has fallen below ten thousand. The Colombian army has cut off their food and fuel supplies. They’ve burned their coca fields. Some say this is the end of the rebel movement.

  “But up here on La Montaña, we don’t know what the rebels are doing. The paths they’ve networked are completely invisible under the triple-canopy jungle. Our spy planes have yet to pinpoint significant populations or intercept communications. It’s like they dropped off the map, only we know they haven’t, because they’re still holding two Americans hostage.”

  “Your job,” inserted the station chief while fixing a stern eye on Gus and Lucy, “is to find Barnes and Howitz and discover what the FARC are up to on that goddamn mountain.”

  Lucy knew the objective, only she’d had no idea how big and formidable that mountain was. It made her think they’d be looking for a needle in a haystack.

  “Any questions?” asked Lieutenant Lindstrom, drawing the briefing to a close an hour later. The legs of his chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

  “Do we have an escape-and-evasion plan?” Lucy asked. “One that doesn’t entail you coming to our rescue?” The lieutenant had just touched on all the things that could go wrong. Gus could run out of battery power for the cell phone. The rebels could suspect deceit and turn on them. Lucy didn’t want to rely on SEALs coming to the rescue. She wanted to be able to save her own hide, the way she’d always done.

  With a thoughtful look, the giant tapped a key and zoomed in on the mountain’s peak. “Right here,” he said.

  Studying the satellite image, Lucy realized there were actually two snowy, jagged peaks on La Montaña, separated by a clear, pristine pool of water.

  “The FARC have a radio station up here,” he added, pointing out a structure built into a cave on the side of the mountain. “This is where they broadcast ‘La Voz de la Resistencia.’ Intel suggests it’s minimally protected, so if you had to, you could subdue the unfriendlies and announce a mayday on their frequency. The NSA monitors every word they broadcast and would alert us immediately. In theory, we can land a helo up there and pull you out.”

  “It’s not going to come to that,” asserted the station chief with confidence. “Just play your part as UN peacekeepers and nothing’s going to happen to you. This Fournier fellow is a damn good negotiator. Who knows, he might get the FARC to let the hostages go and save us the trouble of extracting them.”

  Right, and then we’ll all go home to Kansas and live happily ever after. Lately, Lucy didn’t have much faith in best-case scenarios.

  “Anything else?” Luther asked.

  The reality of their impending departure cut into her consciousness like a razor. She concealed her sudden anxiety behind a cool shrug and glanced at Gus, who shook his head.

  “In that case,” said Whiteside, who seemed eager to wrap things up, “we’ll call it a night. When does the UN team get under way?”

  “First thing in the morning, sir,” Gus told him as he and Lucy stood up. Eight more SEALs sprang politely to their feet.

  Whiteside turned to the OIC. “I want your night shift in the embassy by midnight, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be there.”

  With the branch chief breathing down their necks and the SEALs calling farewells and well-wishes, Gus and Lucy left the safe house, stepped through the pedestrian gate, and realized it was nearly dark. “Wow, what time is it?” she asked, aware that Gus was touching her again.

  He glanced at his watch. “Five-thirty. I think we’d better catch a taxi.” It had stopped raining, but the mountain chain flung its shadow over the city, making it feel later than it was.

  Back on Jiménez de Quezada, they waited for a taxi to come along. One finally slowed before them. A cathedral bell tolled quarter till as they slipped into the back, giving directions to the hotel.

  As Lucy settled on the plastic-wrapped seat, Gus pulled her against him, and her hand landed on his thigh. Whoa. His legs hadn’t felt like that back in college, like they were hewn out of oak trees. Awareness tingled up her fingers, inspiring her imagination as she envisioned herself seated in his lap, her arms coiled around his shoulders, kissing him the way they’d kissed on the airplane…

  “Hotel Hacienda Royal,” he said to the driver, who took off with a squeal of his tires.

  Jarred from her fantasies, Lucy brought her thoughts back to the present. Knowing Gus’s teammates would be monitoring their every move from the JIC was oddly reassuring. “I think I see what you meant about having someone watch your back. It must be nice,” she murmured.

  Gus glanced at her sidelong. “Any one of those guys would give his life for you. Me included,” he added, tightening his embrace.

  Lucy’s heart thudded unevenly. There was something highly disturbing about the thought of Gus giving up his life for her. “Don’t say that,” she muttered. “Nothing’s going to happen to me—to us.”

  His answering
silence reminded Lucy of his deep reluctance to partner with her on this assignment. She’d just have to prove to him that she was made of tougher stuff than he thought she was.

  As the taxi gave a sudden turn, she glanced sharply out the window. The driver had just put them on a narrow, unlit side road. Maybe he was taking a short cut, she reasoned, meeting his darting gaze in the mirror. She elbowed Gus, who looked at the street they were shooting down and said to the driver, “This isn’t the way to Hacienda Royal.”

  “My mistake,” said the man. He slowed down, swinging the nose of the taxi into a dark alleyway as if to turn around. But then, twisting suddenly in his seat, he pointed a pistol at them. “Hand me your wallets!” he demanded fiercely, a desperate glitter in his dark eyes.

  Lucy froze. Gus’s warning squeeze told her he would handle it, which was well and good, because she felt paralyzed.

  “Easy, easy, señor,” he said, holding both hands up. “We don’t carry much cash, but you are welcome to all of it.” Keeping one hand in the air, he grubbed in his pocket with the other while Lucy swallowed convulsively, battling to bring her panic under control.

  Greedy for Gus’s cash, the driver held out a hand to take it. If Lucy had blinked, she would have missed what happened next. Under the guise of handing over his wallet, Gus broke the driver’s nose and snatched his gun away. With a scream, the driver doubled over, blood gushing through his fingers. Removing the clip from the man’s pistol, Gus dropped it on the floor of the car. He reached across Lucy to open her door, but she was already halfway out of it, adrenaline rocketing through her system, accompanied by the cowardly urge to run like hell.

  Get a grip! she scolded herself as Gus grabbed her elbow and hustled her along the crumbling sidewalk. With a glance over his shoulder, he tossed the gun over a high wall.

  “Damn it,” he said, sounding only slightly irritated, “now we’ll definitely be late.”

  “Not if we run,” she urged, sounding shaken. What was wrong with her? A little show of hostility and she was falling apart. But the violence had been so startling, bringing back memories of being on the receiving end. Her heart was hammering. She was breathing too fast. She couldn’t afford for Gus to notice, either, or he’d find a way to leave her behind.